


MR TORRENT’S WILD RIDE

by minkmix



Category: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers | Ronin Warriors
Genre: M/M, awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: Can’t stop the scratchingMy blood makes the noiseS’hard not to play when there are so many toysSo many toys...— Jewelby Tsubaki (i was just in on it)Sai is drunk and adorably British. Rowen is trying to drive.
Relationships: Hashiba Touma | Rowen Hashiba/Mouri Shin | Cye Mouri
Kudos: 5





	MR TORRENT’S WILD RIDE

Can’t stop the scratching  
My blood makes the noise  
S’hard not to play when there are so many toys  
So many toys...  
— Jewel

MR TORRENT’S WILD RIDE

by Tsubaki

Rowen stumbled out of the Oxford Arms into the dim electric lights of Camden High Street, clutching a limp Sai by the waist. At the moment all his effort was devoted to keeping their feet from entangling and sprawling them flat in the middle of the road.

“Don’t haff kerry me,” Sai murmured from Rowen’s armpit. “M’fine.”

“Right,” Rowen said.

“No really, m’fine,” Sai insisted.

“Uh-huh,” Rowen nodded, easing Sai up over the curb onto the sidewalk (“pavement,” they called it “pavement” here, and they spelled it “kerb”), and tried to ease him into the car, parked by the stone wall of the deserted Stables Market, underneath two brand-spankin’-new, eight-foot high billboards of Natalie Imbruglia and Shaznay from All Saints. Seemed like they changed those every other day, here. Yesterday it had been Oasis, Garbage and Tanita Tikaram.

Coming towards them, a sanitation truck (that’s “lorry”) belched and rattled and steamed its way along the opposite side of the street, vacuuming up greasy paper, cans, bottles, tickets, tags, food, cigarettes — the aftermath of Camden’s week-end market, one of London’s biggest. And messiest. And best.  
A very good day, overall. As was attested to by Sai's current sloshedness.

Sai seemed to have some trouble deciding whether head or feet went in first. After several contorted attempts, two of which ended with Rowen’s head being banged against the car roof, Sai wound up wedged in on the front-seat floor, his legs dangling out onto the pavement.

“Cahnt get inna cah,” observed Sai, astutely. “Stuck.”

Rowen nodded agreement.

Sai’s R’s had all but disappeared completely — all Rowen could hear were the long A’s he put into everything.

“Oh dear,” he slurred. “I’m rahtha pissed, ahrnt I?”

“Completely.”

“Sorray.”

It all came, thought Rowen, of allowing Sai free access to the pitcher. That’s why Rowen would take a good strong Belgian bitter any day — you knew what you were drinking, at least. Let Sai into the nice, sweet, refreshing Red Bull-and-Vodka and he completely forgot he was still drinking eight or nine percent stuff, and this was what you wound up with. The Master of Torrent half-wedged into the front seat of a Vauxhall Chevy Cavalier.

“What kind of a fuckin’ Brit are ya, anyway?” muttered Rowen good-naturedly, leaning down and draping Sai’s arms over his shoulder in a sort of modified fireman’s carry. There was no excuse for this. Lager was supposed to run through his veins. Sai should have been able to keep up with the best of them... no, that wasn’t even close to fair, Rowen amended.  
After all, Kento was a bottomless pit regardless of country, creed, or kindred, and Rowen himself never drank alcohol so much as he shamed it into submission. Just outlasted it.  
Kento had somehow managed to talk Ryo and Seiji into going with him to club WKD. Reggae night. Rowen was still not quite sure how that had happened, those two must have been way drunker than he’d thought.

Which with Ryo wasn’t that big a deal. Getting Wildfire wasted was not a major accomplishment at all ever. Seiji, though — you could never tell how drunk Seiji was. He was scary that way. He wasn’t a huge talker to begin with, so when drink made him quieter, it was kind of hard to tell. He would be perfectly coherent and clear-eyed all evening, and then when you stood up to leave the pub he would fall over. Or do something equally freakish and disturbing (for Seiji), like allow himself to be dragged to a large, loud, packed-like-sardines nightclub on a Saturday night/Sunday morning.

Very uncharacteristic.

Rowen had been good tonight, which surprised even himself, sticking to the UK legal one-pint limit for the designated driver. Sai though — Sai wasn’t in any shape to do anything. So it was decided: Rowen would take Sai home now, and the others would get a mini-cab back to the hotel later.

Torrent’s head lolled gently over Rowen’s shoulder now, and he wrapped his arms loosely around Rowen’s neck.

“Hey,” Rowen murmured as he lifted, “aren’t you supposed to have power over ALL liquid?”

Sai nibbled on Rowen’s ear.

“Quit that!” Rowen couldn’t help smiling, a fact which, apparently, Sai was able to pick up on even through his cocktail-induced haze. Sai giggled softly.  
After a few more tries, Rowen finally got Sai’s rump on the seat, his legs tucked in and the seatbelt buckled around him, though a bit loosely. He secured the passenger door, then circled round to the driver’s side and got in.

“Shit,” he said, slamming the car door beside him, “how the fuck do we get back?” Rowen cursed in his calm-mellow Rowen way, which didn’t really mean anything.

Sai’s head lolled slowly off to the side, coming to rest lightly on Rowen’s left shoulder. Rowen lifted him up again and placed him firmly upright in his seat. While the feel of soft auburn hair on his neck was admittedly very nice, he had a street map to find.

“Where is the freakin’ A to Z?” he wondered aloud, rummaging around in the pitch-blackness of the glove compartment. Shouldn’t there have been a light in there? Damn rental car. He sighed.

Beside him, Sai began to giggle again.

“Nani?” Rowen gave him a puzzled sidelong glance.

Sai grinned without opening his eyes. “You said Zee...”

“What?” Rowen was confused.

“You said Zeeee... soun’ like... sound like unumeercan... Like a ‘Merican... You soun’ like Ryo....” Sai slurred off into silence.

Rowen smiled at that. Aside from Sai, of course, they all been accused at one point or another of some degree of Yankification — except maybe Seiji, whose English nobody could ever place for some reason. It seemed their accents were all slightly tinged... but Ryo’s “American” was perhaps more... er... authentic than the rest. Ryo... well, Ryo said things like “dude."

Rowen groped around in the darkness by his feet, then over on the floor around Sai’s ankles. “Awright,” he conceded, his voice somewhat muffled by the knees of his corduroys. “A to ZED then.”

Sai nodded approval. The effort seemed to make him dizzy, so he left his chin down on his sternum. “S’propah,” he said.

Rowen finally located the A to Zed underneath the driver’s seat, and peered at it in the inadequate light of the dying streetlamp. He squinted under the faint, flickering, yellowy glow. Shit. If Ryo was here at least he could call up a small fireball, or make his fingertips glow or somethin’... An idea flashed into Rowen’s head, and he grinned sheepishly that he hadn’t thought of it immediately. He fished around in the inner pocket of his brown suede jacket.

“What’re doing?” Sai murmured.

“Nothin’.” Rowen finally pulled out the object he sought — a small crystal sphere. It cast a faint, deep blue light over the pages of the small street atlas. “Let’s see,” he muttered. “Chalk Farm... Camden High Street... down Gower... aaaaand... a right on Oxford to Bond Street.”

“Ro-wen!” Sai’s eyes were open again. “Thassa... thassyer... kanji thingummy!” he exclaimed, ever keen to take a stand for offended propriety even through the depths of his drunk. “Should’n’ play wivvit!”

“Then how will I see?” Rowen asked, reasonably.

“Hmmmmm. Hokay.”

Wow. Sai was more wasted than he’d thought.

Rowen replaced the kanji sphere in his secure inner pocket, then hit the clutch, revved the engine, and pulled off.

Rowen liked the feel of Sai’s head resting on his shoulder. It was calming, the weight of it, the warmth. He smelled like oceans and rivers were supposed to, the way they were described in books — a Sai-ness of scent that managed to override any leftover pub smokiness in clothes or hair. Nothing really definable, just... clean. Pure. Something that just got into your lungs and made you feel good, made you feel glad it was in there. Sai’s cheek was soft, and his hair tickled a little under Rowen’s chin. It made Rowen feel safe and protective at the same time.

Unfortunately Sai was having trouble keeping to Rowen’s shoulder. Rowen pulled to a halt at the next stop sign and balanced Sai on his collarbone again.

No sooner did Rowen pull off, however, than Sai’s head began its southerly journey once more, sliding down across Rowen’s chest until his body lay across the front seats of the car, torso practically wrapped around the fraggin’ gear-shift lever, head in Rowen’s lap.

“Sai!” Rowen tried to re-steady him, shift gears, and steer all at once.

He failed at all three.

A low chuckle floated up to him from somewhere in the vicinity of his navel, and he heard the sound of a zipper.

“Sai?”

Rowen heard his belt unbuckle.

“Sai!!”

Sai’s words wafted up at him, a muffled, singsong tease:

“Stay calm, Toma-chan.”

“SAI!”

Rowen was not one to panic. He never had been, it was a major component of his personality. Balance. Composure. Hell, it was his purpose, his nature, his role in the group dynamic. He was the calm one, the peacemaker, the mellow-out guy. And so, he assured himself desperately as the cold air and hot damp breath hit the base of his stomach, as the heat, warm and wet and soft, closed around his sex — he knew he could deal. Really, he would be fine. Therefore he did not — and this is very important — he did not overreact. The fact that his eyes flew open and his heart pounded and his face flushed and the blood left his fingers as he clutched the steering wheel with a grip like rigor mortis — none of this really signified any threat to his control. Perfectly capable of handling... oh god... um, yes, handling, handling the situation —  
Just drive.

The heat spread in waves, pulsing throughout his groin, the pressure of the soft-rough tongue making the blood course, tingling and hot beneath the surface his skin.

He wanted to watch, oh he wanted to watch so bad, the silky red-brown wave of Sai’s hair moving across his stomach, the thick dark lashes on pale cheeks, the working of his long, pretty white throat... he wanted to see himself disappearing again and again between those pouting pink lips...  
Rowen just held on, held on for dear life, torn between the desire to see, the desire to shut his eyes and give himself up to the heat, and the desire not to be splattered across the road by an oncoming truck (“lorry”).

Just drive, he told himself. Oh Jesus. Just drive.

Traffic veered right, and Rowen followed it, shaking, perspiration beading on his temples despite the cool night air.

“Sai,” he gasped, “what are you doing!?”

There was, of course, no answer.

Ohgodohgodohgod, thought Rowen as he flew through the first red light, I can’t change GEARS... DAMN Europe for their stubborn refusal to embrace the automatic shift...  
Rowen made a right turn.

And thank god they drove on the left here like at home in Japan or they would both so fucking dead —  
Rowen made a left turn.

Oh SHIT, and now Sai was humming —

His thighs trembled, shuddering involuntarily. The Cavalier screeched, a horrific metal grinding of gears that was enough to cause him real physical pain, but a pain that served only to augment the pulsing, buzzing heat below.

Rowen swerved madly out of the path of a SoHo-bound stretch limo and found himself zooming out onto a roundabout — no, no ordinary roundabout: this was Trafalgar Square — which he circled three times, dodging pedestrians, autos, and just about every huge red double-deck bus currently in service in London, before gathering together the presence of mind to turn off onto a side road with a prolonged squeal of tires (“tyres”).

Blindly he felt around for the brake pedal with his foot. Or the gas, or clutch — right about now he was very willing to settle for one out of three.

He was vaguely aware of a very large man shaking a fist at them from the pavement; a flash of red beard and angry voice, passed and forgotten.

Well , he thought, resignedly, his breathing quick and ragged. At least they wouldn’t die, couldn’t die, but the rental car wreck would cost them an arm and a leg, probably literally.

Rowen moaned softly, his shoulders shaking, blood pounding, body throbbing, gripping white-knuckled at the wheel, just holding on, not even steering anymore, trying his damnedest just to keep his eyes open, the sound of angry shouts and car horns washing over him like water.

Like deep, deep water.

Orgasm hit him in a spasmodic rush, and his body clenched, stomach contracting, almost sending his forehead smacking into the steering wheel. Rowen and car flew into a relatively deserted side-street with a piercing metallic scream of brakes, and a second scream only slightly less loud, of Rowen’s own lungs. They screeched to a halt.

Rowen opened the car door and stumbled out onto the curb (“kerb”), gulping air like he’d forgotten how. Rivulets of sweat plastered midnight-indigo hair to his forehead. He could feel, literally feel, the pulse twitching in his neck. Some deep-buried secondary part of his mind managed to be dimly glad for the long denim shirt that covered up his state of disarray below the belt.

He braced himself against the bill- and ad-spattered wall of an abandoned storefront, just breathing, just breathing. Above him, Lauryn Hill grinned impishly down from an ad for Time Out Magazine, elfin and mocking from behind the bright-happy-yellow headline: “Killing them Softly with Her Song...”

To his left seemed to be some sort of darkened warehouse. To his right, nothing. A block-long, empty crater like a bomb site, with a single yellow crane in the center of it.

Rowen looked up at the night sky.

“Where the hell are we NOW?!” he asked no one in particular.

“Row’n...”

Rowen glanced behind him to where Sai still lay across the two front seats. The driver’s side door still hung open. Sai stretched a little, and gave a wide yawn, settling down into the seats like a kitten. He actually managed to seem quite comfortable.

“Whaddaya some kind of NUT?” Rowen descended upon him. “We coulda died. We coulda fuckin’died.”

Sai rolled onto his back and blinked up at Rowen. He smiled, sweetly.

Rowen shut his eyes and grinned helplessly. He folded his arms on the roof of the car, resting his head on the cold metal in defeat.

Sai gave another yawn.

“Y’r on a double yellow line, Toma-chan,” he murmured sleepily.

Rowen began to laugh. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop. As uncontrollable as a second orgasm, it rolled up in waves, bubbling up from deep within his belly, bending him nearly double. He grasped hold of the car roof to hold himself upright, and just let himself go, gasping, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

Two young Indian girls passed by, with very short skirts, club makeup and merry Cockney accents. They went silent at the sight of him, staring at him oddly, then crossed to continue their journey on the other side of the street.

“Row’n,” Sai insisted, his soft voice gently penetrating Rowen’s hysteria. “Can’t stop here.” He reached up and tugged at Rowen’s jacket, like a small child. “T’car’ll get clamped. Booted. Thingummy, with police. You know what I mean...”

Rowen made a concerted effort to compose himself. He reached down and gently lifted Sai’s head, and got back into the car, still chuckling. Sai nestled into Rowen’s lap once more. Rowen reached down and stroked his hair. Making certain Sai remained face UP.

“Christ.” He sighed. His stomach hurt. “Where’d I put that A-Z thing?”

“Zed,” Sai murmured. “Zed.”

Rowen leaned down and kissed him, softly. But Sai was already asleep.


End file.
